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Fred's Gun
Fred was, once again, furious. His face turned red, his face scrunched up, and his breathing became fast-paced. He tried to clench his fists, and he succeeded in doing that with his left. However, in his right hand he felt a heavy, cold object. It was there again, the gun. “Fred, wh- what… where did you get that?” his girlfriend Janice asked wearily. “NEVERMIND THAT! WHY DID YOU CHEAT?” Fred shouted, fuming with rage. A relationship of three years that ended in betrayal and infidelity. He tried to let go of the gun, but it seemed like it was superglued to his hand. “I- I’m so sorry, Fred. I- just let go of it, please,” Janice stuttered. Tears streamed down her face and she had her hands held up in front of her in futile protection. “I can’t. Sorry,” Fred replied. “I can’t let go of it.” But just then, the gun fell onto the white, marble floor of the kitchen. Clang! For a moment, there was no speaking and just heavy breathing. Then Janice rushed out of the kitchen. Fred stood still, ashamed and looking at the shiny black gun on the floor. He heard her leave through the front door. That gun… that damn gun. The gun that kept materializing in his right hand out of nowhere. One second, it wasn’t there. The other, it was. This strange thing started happening about a year ago. It had always happened when he was by himself, losing in a video game or searching for his car keys. The only thing linking the incidents was that he was filled with rage. What the hell is wrong with me? He blinked, and the gun he was staring at vanished. Hours passed, and there came an authorities knocking at the door. Fred walked to the door, and put his eye to the peephole. He saw police cars parked in his driveway and along the street. It was a policewoman at the door. She knocked again. Fred unlocked it. “Sir, this is the Police Department of-” she said before raising her gun suddenly at Fred. Her eyes were widened and alert. “Put that gun down now, sir!” The officers from the other cars got out and raised theirs at the bewildered Fred. It’s here again? No! This is a first. It only ever happened when he was frustrated or angry in some way before. He guessed that maybe it also happens when he is terribly nervous. “Put the gun DOWN!” she screamed. Other officers were chiming in. They were telling him that they would shoot if he didn’t let go. Fred was shaking uncontrollably. His hands were immobile. The gun stayed there, in his tight grip, pointing down at the porch. “I can’t move my…” Fred stopped talking as he watched as his right hand slowly started swinging up the air. His arm, straight and stiff, was completely numb at this point. It wasn’t his any longer. The screams of the officers were strangely dim. It was like the background noise of something more significant. That was, the ominous, soft voice talking to him in his mind as he tried to fight for control of his arm again. It sounded like his own. ''Do it. Or it’ll be pointing at yourself next time. Do it already. '' His fingers were still movable, however. It was almost like he was given the choice of whether to pull the trigger or not. The next thing he remembered was waking up in a hospital room, with the weapon in his right hand. He looked under the blanket. What he saw made him sweat. His finger was on the trigger, but he didn’t feel anything. In a single, swift movement the gun turned and pointed towards his face. The last thing Fred heard was laughter that sounded an awful lot like his own.Category:Mental Illness